Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

Wolff picked up his glass. ‘Yes.’ He sipped his whisky slowly, then bent low to place it on the hearth.

‘Then we must talk about America,’ said Hall. ‘This German fellow, von Rintelen, you mention in your report — is he going to contact you?’

‘I don’t know. I am to be one of Casement’s representatives, that’s all we agreed,’ Wolff explained. ‘The Count said there might be an opportunity to make some money — wanted me to contact a Dr Albert at the Hamburg America Line on Broadway.’

‘Good, very good.’ Hall was blinking furiously. ‘We know Dr Albert, don’t we, Cumming? Holds the purse strings in America. Haven’t been able to get near him…’ He exchanged a glance with C.

‘Our chap, Gaunt, has been keeping an eye on him,’ he continued. ‘Says Albert doesn’t get his hands dirty, no, that’s why they’ve sent this man von Rintelen… marvellous opportunity, Wolff, marvellous.’

Wolff nodded. He wasn’t ready, not yet.

‘Yes, yes.’ Hall got up to stand on the rug in front of the fire. ‘Known for a while that they’re building a network in New York. Sabotage — all in the report you sent from Amsterdam,’ he declared, rattling it in incisive bursts like a machine gun. ‘We’re going to have to fight this war with American shells… not making enough of our own — scandal really. Not just shells… rifles, lots of things — horses. That’s what this fellow Rintelen is about. Looks as if he’s going to be able to count on the bloody Irish, and New York’s full of ’em.’ He took his cigarette case from his jacket pocket and stared at it distractedly for a few seconds, then put it back without taking one. ‘The thing is, Wolff, Rintelen isn’t the only man they’ve sent to America, there’s another. There are two of them,’ he said at last.

‘Two of them?’

‘Two of them, sir ,’ snapped Hall. ‘ Delmar — at least that’s his code name. Heard of him?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Your Count, well, someone in his Section P has sent him — top secret, highest classification, separate arrangements, separate contacts — he’s going to a lot of trouble — why? Like to hazard a guess?’

‘No idea, sir.’

‘You can see how important this is,’ Cumming interpolated quickly. ‘We can’t rely on the Americans.’

‘Amateurs,’ said Hall, shaking his head contemptuously.

‘We’re not supposed to be operating there,’ Cumming continued, ‘but we have this opportunity… a marvellous opportunity… safer than Berlin, of course.’

Wolff didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to make it easy. God, he was sick of their club-smoke intrigue, sitting there on the edge of their seats; sick of the Kipling talk they were preparing to give him on his duty.

‘You can have a little time, twenty-four hours all right?’ C took out his monocle and rubbed his eye with his forefinger. ‘Shore leave, if you like. Time to get a few things straight. The Rotterdam , isn’t it?’

Wolff nodded and drew on his cigarette. For a time no one spoke.

‘You might like to see your friend, Mrs Curtis,’ C said at last, putting his monocle back. ‘I believe she’s had, well…’

‘How do you know about this Delmar?’ interrupted Wolff.

For once C looked a little thrown. Hall was blinking furiously. ‘None of your damn business,’ he growled.

‘It is if you sent someone else out there — to Germany, I mean,’ Wolff replied hotly. ‘But you’d have told me. No, you’re into their codes? Then you don’t need me.’

‘Damned impertinent, Wolff.’ Blinker was bouncing with indignation on the balls of his feet. ‘You’re a naval officer.’

‘I wasn’t sure I’d be able to manage it, well, not after… anyway, I did. You said yourself it was good work…’

‘A job half done, Wolff, half done.’

Wolff closed his eyes and shook his head slowly; he didn’t want that lecture on duty from a bugger in a club armchair. For a few seconds no one spoke. Someone in the corridor was chuntering in a parade-ground voice.

‘Is that the time?’ said Hall, glancing at his watch. ‘I have an appointment at five. Don’t get up, Cumming… talk some sense into him.’

Abandoning the rug at last, he strutted to the door, right hand in his jacket pocket, then turned to glare menacingly at Wolff once more.

‘Isn’t over, not by a long chalk. Don’t care what you think of me, Wolff… can’t walk away from your duty. Don’t you know what’s happening out there?’

And with that he was gone. Wolff drew heavily on the last of his cigarette, and half rising, flicked the end in the grate. He could sense C watching him closely, perhaps expecting instant acquiescence now that Hall had left them, something like, ‘You’ve had your say, vented your spleen. Game over.’

‘I know what you’re thinking, Wolff,’ C said at last, a sly suggestion of sympathy in his voice. ‘You’re thinking “I’ve been out there again, risked my life, I can forget Turkey, forget what happened there. I can walk with a clear conscience.”’ C paused to let Wolff speak but he couldn’t. ‘Go home. Sleep. You’ll feel different in the morning. My car’s outside, I’ll drive you.’

‘Like that?’ Wolff asked, nodding at C’s sticks.

‘Damn cheek. I’m not a cripple,’ he replied irritably, ‘I’ll thank you not to treat me like one.’

They didn’t talk much in the car. C drove like a madman, careering along Park Lane, his hand hovering over the horn. Turning into Marylebone, they narrowly missed a cyclist, C wailing at him like a banshee, schoolboy glint in his eye again. Driving his Rolls always put him in a good humour. ‘Funniest thing, Wolff,’ he shouted as they swung left into Wimpole Street. ‘Got the fellows at University College to come up with the perfect invisible ink. Know what they say? Ha, ha, you won’t believe… semen.’ He was shaking with laughter. ‘Semen. They swear by it. Just think, no problem hiding it, fellow always has it on him… just so long… ha, ha… just so long as he’s careful not to overdo it.’ Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he took his hand off the wheel for a moment to reach for his handkerchief. It was a relief when a few minutes later they took another left into a mews lane and came to a halt a discreet distance from Wolff’s door.

‘I’ll say it again, fine work.’ He switched off the engine and shuffled about to face him. ‘Hard to go back, I know, but you can be proud of what you achieved for your country.’

For your country . No higher praise. His voice was gruff with sincerity. It was almost touching. Goodness, yes, clapping and hurrahing at the rope. A fine innings. But the match isn’t over, Wolff, oh no. No, no.

‘Thank you for the lift, sir,’ he said, fumbling for the door.

‘Fitzgerald will call for you at ten tomorrow. Ramsgate train at eleven. He’ll brief you, he’s a good fellow…’

Wolff nodded.

‘One more thing.’ He frowned and his gaze slipped to an indeterminate point somewhere over Wolff’s right shoulder. ‘Your friend, Curtis — you won’t have heard — killed a few weeks ago… gas attack. Heard his widow was trying to reach you… thought you should know.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Silence. Wolff couldn’t think of anything more to say. God, he hoped Reggie didn’t know.

‘Well, good luck,’ said C briskly. ‘And when you’re there, keep me informed, no reason why you can’t in America.’

He was disappointed to find that his apartment was just as he’d left it. He felt the same after every operation. The maid had left a few letters on his desk, two of them from his mother. It was six o’clock in the evening; he was hungry, tired and generally low. He had a little under seventeen hours in London, and no appetite for any sort of social gathering, even dinner in a restaurant. ‘All right,’ he sighed, and he walked to his drawing-room sideboard and poured a whisky.